He was between Storm and Rune, sharing ankle and wrist wall-rings, but secured tightly enough that they could never touch.
Storm’s hair had been gathered into a rope and then stretched down her back and clamped to a chain that led down to the ring at her right ankle. It seemed Cormyr was taking no chances.
The Dragons had left the cell door open. As per standing orders, Tracegar or his designate would have keys to all doors, so any prisoner seeking to escape would need to cooperate with-or somehow vanquish-the two captors. Courtiers in Cormyr had long ago heard enough bards’ ballads not to make the most obvious mistakes.
Except, it seemed, the ones about turning your back on prisoners and gloating.
Tracegar turned to them once again and strolled right up to Storm.
He slowly traced a line down the side of her face, from temple to jaw, with one forefinger as he explained, “I am less than comfortable with any of you suffering this treatment, but there is much peril and uncertainty in the realm right now, and the Lady Glathra needs answers, above all. These manacles are to avoid unpleasantness until the veteran wizards of war the Lady Glathra wants to, ah, meet with you can be roused from their beds. Customarily, chains are unnecessary for persons such as yourselves-but these are extraordinary times.”
His face was so close to hers that he was almost brushing her with his lips.
Storm reached out with her glove, kissing him to quell any swift and desperate incantation-and Tracegar stiffened into helpless silence.
“My sentiments exactly,” Storm purred in reply, as she wrapped her free arm around the paralyzed mage and swung him around to thump against Arclath. She held him there, against a frozen Delcastle flank, so Elminster could get to work on the war wizard.
“El?”
The Sage of Shadowdale had no way of replying, but she could see by the movements of Arclath’s eyes that he’d noticed a healing potion-a shiny steel vial marked with a sun-at Tracegar’s belt.
Then ashes were trickling out of Arclath’s nose, and Storm knew El was on his way to Tracegar’s nose and mouth, to invade and conquer the war wizard’s mind.
To work a spell by will alone was beyond Tracegar’s skill at Art, but not Elminster’s.
Tracegar stiffened, and then his eyes flickered and he was moving, as smoothly and matter-of-factly as if he were an old friend. Taking the vial from his belt, twisting the stopper to break the wax seal but not opening it, then putting a finger under Storm’s chin so gently that it was a caress.
Storm opened her mouth obediently, and El made the war wizard pour the healing potion into her slowly and carefully. The familiar warm, then minty-cool flood coursed through her, banishing all pains and aches and weariness, leaving her feeling wonderful.
She sighed out her contentment as Tracegar stepped back and worked another spell, murmuring the words El chose for him aloud as he spell-spoke Vangerdahast from afar, telling him what had befallen.
Then the enthralled war wizard murmured a reply.
“Mirt will bring a coach to the Three Dolphins Door, for the conveyance elsewhere of Wizard of War Welwyn Tracegar with three still-shackled prisoners,” Vangey informed Elminster. “Provided you have the good sense, for once, to get out of Suzail fast. All of you.”
The alley behind the shop of Sraunter the alchemist was apt to be deserted in the dark, chill hours of very early mornings, but things were different this night. Two closed and loaded wagons stood in the nightgloom, their horses hitched and dozing, and the drover and carter of each wagon sitting like statues with their reins and whips, seemingly lost in personal dazes.
The lithe figure in dark thief’s leathers was little more than a shadow until it suddenly mounted one wagon, sat down beside the drover, and kissed him very thoroughly.
Whereupon he stirred, turned his head, and told her in a coldly familiar voice, “Go home now, and enjoy what’s left of Lady Deleira Truesilver’s slumber. Go to ground until I reach out to you again. You are not much suited to my next few battles.”
Talane nodded, dared to squeeze the drover’s hand in farewell, slipped down from the wagon, and was gone, melting into the night in silence.
She was three streets away before she dared to murmur, “You might have thanked me, Lord Manshoon. I merely saved your life. Not much suited… bah.”
She’d expected no thanks, but being left out of the fun rankled.
“Got it?”
Mirt winced. “Aye. Not that I enjoy having views of rooms an’ passages thrust into my head, mind ye. I can feel a headache coming on.”
“If you got yourself lost and ran afoul of the wrong war wizard, you’d soon learn what a real headache feels like,” Vangerdahast snapped. “Waste no time, mind. The longer you’re in the stables, the more loyal Cormyreans you may have to brawl with.”
Mirt grunted a wordless reply and set off along the passage.
Vangey smiled thinly at the Waterdhavian’s ample back. Well, at least the man had picked the right passage and was heading down it in the proper direction.
At that moment Mirt stopped, turned, and growled, “So, while I’m stealing coaches an’ horses an’ all, what’ll ye be doing?”
“Pretending to be a much younger and more callow wizard of war than I am,” Vangerdahast replied, “as I spell-send Glathra a false alarm about intruders getting into the palace to try to slay the king, to draw her-and most of the Dragons and other court mages who are up and awake right now-to the royal wing of the palace. Yet, I’ll be far from there.”
“Huh,” Mirt grumbled, setting off again. “Always take the easy part, wizards do. The talking. Always the talking. Some of us actually have to do things, ye know.”
“Where’s he going?” Amarune whispered as Tracegar strode out of the cell, leaving them chained to the wall.
He had just ended the paralysis on her and on Arclath, who looked at her now and replied-in his own voice, thank Tymora! — “Elminster’s using a spell to ride his mind from my mind; that’s why Storm pressed us together, all that time. He’s off to find the guard who has the keys to our shackles, and deal with him.”
“Deal permanently?”
“No,” Storm put in. “The gods frown on folk who slay unnecessarily-and they send misfortune by way of ‘reward.’ The Dragon will find a short sleep or paralysis, no more.”
Rune was still nodding when Tracegar reappeared and silently freed them all.
“Leave the unlocked shackles on,” Storm directed, as her hair, holding its ropelike shape, arched up to feed itself down the back of her neck, inside her clothes, “and move and act as if they’re still locked and we’re still prisoners. We’ll probably run into someone in the passages. We follow Tracegar.”
The silent war wizard waved a wand threateningly, his face grim, and strode out of the cell. Looking just as grim and keeping her wrists crossed, Storm followed him, so Arclath and Amarune fell into step behind her.
Behind a door that looked like many others they’d passed was a closet whose door shone with a warning sigil that Tracegar ignored, opening it to display shelves of gleaming vials. Storm gave them one each to drink, banishing all hurts and weariness, then two more each to carry.
Tracegar put the emptied vials in a basket on the closet floor, closed the door again, and waved his wand, pointing along a new passage.
Storm crossed her wrists again and looked glum, so Rune and Arclath did the same as they shuffled along after the silent war wizard, chains clinking.
They were heading for a distant lantern, by a large door that looked like it led out of the palace. Standing under the lantern were four impassive Purple Dragons, watching them make the long, long walk.
As they got closer, two of the guards lowered their spears to the ready, points up and inclined in their direction. The other two set their spears against walls, drew their swords, and stepped forward, looking decidedly unfriendly.
Mirt sighed heavily.
“I know not which harness to use, or what horses, either! But I know right well I was ordered to bring a closed coach-like this one, or that one yonder-around to a particular door just as fast as I could. And being as
